


I Am, I Am, I Am

by PuppiesRainbowsSadism



Series: I Am [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Addiction, Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe- No Supernatural, Depression, Gen, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-29
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-06 18:45:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 7,837
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4232736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PuppiesRainbowsSadism/pseuds/PuppiesRainbowsSadism
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam is lost. Castiel isn't so much a compass as a canteen.</p><p>Short snippets of Sam wading through life, trying to live with depression, self-harm, the growing appeal of suicide, and above all, keeping everything a secret. Cas is the only one who knows, and while he doesn't understand what Sam's going through, he does what he can to help.</p><p>Sam's feelings are very real. Castiel's are very idealised. These are not in chronological order.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In Which Sam is Neither Present nor Accounted For

**Author's Note:**

> THIS STORY IS POTENTIALLY VERY TRIGGERING. On a daily basis, I personally deal with the same issues that Sam does in this fic, and I write what I feel. If the topics of depression, self-harm, addiction, suicide and suicidal ideation, and/or anything similar are triggering for you, DO NOT READ THIS FIC.
> 
> Title from Sylvia Plath's The Bell Jar: "I took a deep breath and listened to the old brag of my heart. I am, I am, I am."

Sam didn’t meet Cas at his locker this morning.

Sam didn’t show up to first period. The tardy bell had already rung. Where was Sam?

When the teacher called roll, Sam wasn’t there to say “here.” Castiel was already nervous, but without that small reassurance, he was  _terrified_. He didn’t last ten minutes into class before he was clutching his stomach and raising his hand, making excuses that he felt like he was going to be sick. He talked a little bit too much, as the teacher was already ushering him out the door before Cas had even finished his excuse. But if anyone noticed, no one said anything.

He didn’t bother stopping by the office to call one of his brothers. That would take too long, and what if he was already too late?

It wasn’t a thought Castiel wanted to entertain, but once it was in his head, he couldn’t make it leave. His heart beat to a mantra of  _too late too late too late_  even as he slipped through the fence where he knew there was a blind spot in surveillance. He wouldn’t have known about that a year ago. Sam was changing him in a lot of ways, for better or for worse.

There was quite a bit of distance between the Winchester home and their school. All the same, Cas sprinted the entire distance, ignoring the stitch in his side and the tightness in his chest due half to exhaustion and half to fear.

When Sam’s house came into view, Cas realised he had a choice. Sam always left his window unlocked should he opt for the roof, as usual. But he didn’t want to startle Sam, if he was indeed still in the house, and he was always welcome here anyway. He burst through the front door and up the stairs, air becoming a real problem now. Cas never was that athletic, and he cursed himself for it now.

He didn’t want to storm Sam’s room, really, but his heart felt like it was about to burst out of his chest and his pulse was thundering in his hears and  _what if he was already too late?_

“Sam?” he shouted. No response. “Sam, are you in there? Can I come in?”

Maybe it was Castiel’s imagination, but he thought he heard a response, faint, but there nonetheless.

He took it as it was and opened the door.

His heart, running a mile a minute not half a second ago, stopped. Castiel stopped breathing. Everything stopped when he saw Sam lying limp and motionless on his bed.

Then Sam raised his head to look at him, a question in his eyes that might very well have been spoken, but if it was, Cas didn’t hear it, too preoccupied with his own body beginning to function again.

“Are you okay?” they both asked. Cas leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath, and ended up sliding down to the floor.

“You first,” Sam insisted.

“I’m fine,” Castiel gasped. “It just – looks like I – I overreacted a little.”

“Cas?”

“I’m fine, really. How about you? Are you okay? You didn’t show up to school?”

Sam sighed, but the gesture somehow only added tension to his body. “I couldn’t. I just – I can’t get out of bed today. I tried I just – I can’t.”

Castiel nodded. This happened sometimes, and it wasn’t the first time Sam had missed class because of it. But it was the first time Cas didn’t know about it beforehand.

“In that case, do you mind if I join you?”

“What? No, Cas. I’m sorry I worried you. Go back to school.”

Cas huffed and crawled into the bed beside Sam. He was always welcome there, as well. His hands seek Sam out and cling to him as if seeking for signs of life, reassurance.

“We’re going over  _The Scarlet Letter_  for the third time in as many years. I’m not missing anything, and neither are you, I promise. And besides,” he added when it looked like Sam might argue. “I don’t like that you have to feel this way, but I like taking care of you. So maybe we’ll just lay here together today, and I’ll make sure you eat and drink and everything.”

Sam’s eyes welled with tears. That was a good thing, Cas knew, because it meant that Sam had more or less overcome the overwhelming numbness that threatened to consume him on a daily basis. Or, at least, he had for now. They’d have to play it by ear the rest of the day.

Sam cradled Cas’s face between his hands and kissed him on the corner of his mouth. He was always so scared of kissing him, especially when he had been or was about to cry. No matter how often Cas said it was okay, Sam didn’t seem to get it. Usually, that would be Cas’s cue to back off, but he would never stop showing Sam affection.

“Thank you,” Sam whispered shakily. “Thank you so much.”

“Not a problem,” Cas said casually, knowing Sam wouldn’t respond well if he made a big deal about how much of a big deal it  _wasn’t_. “I think I’m going to make breakfast. Do you want to stay here, or do you think you can make it downstairs to set up there?”

Sam’s smile was trembling, more like a pout than anything. But it was genuine, and that was what mattered.


	2. In Which Sam is More Able to Hurt Himself Than Others

Sam was shaking, and that made Castiel’s job a lot more difficult.

He didn’t complain, though, didn’t even point it out. Every now and then, Sam’s breath hitched, sobbing silently, but Castiel ignored that too. Sam got upset when someone drew attention to things like that. Castiel stayed unwaveringly focused on his task.

He held Sam’s arm in one hand, a marker in the other as he drew all over Sam’s skin. Castiel had found Sam curled in on himself, drawing his thumbnail repeatedly over his wrist, seemingly determined to break the skin and getting more and more frustrated with each swipe. So Castiel had intervened. There were already a bird and a bee on one wrist, and he was currently working on a tiger on the other.

Sam still scratched at himself nervously, but his nails weren’t going to do any damage against denim.

He covered Sam’s arms up to the elbows with animals before finally capping the marker and kissing Sam’s cheek. “I’m so proud of you,” he whispered.

“Why?” Sam spoke for the first time that night, his voice shaky and full of disbelief.

“You could easily have relapsed, Sam. There are a number of sharp objects in the house.”

Sam ducked his head, hiding behind his hair. He hadn’t told his family about this. Any of this. It would have been so easy to grab a knife or a razor and sneak it into his room.

“You wouldn’t hurt any of us, would you, Sam?” Castiel asked softly.

Sam looked confused at the question, but shook his head.

“Good,” Castiel smiled, pointing to the animals on Sam’s arms as he spoke. “That’s Dean. Those are your parents. This is Adam and Jess, Brady, me… .”

Sam swallowed past the lump in his throat it wasn’t very effective. “What about the others?”

Castiel shrugged. “Those are just the ones I draw well. The point is, you can’t hurt us, right? So,” he gripped Sam’s wrists meaningfully, “ _Don’t hurt us_.”

Tears stung Sam’s eyes, and he dimly registered that he needed to drink more water – needed to take better care of himself – before he doubled over, Castiel catching him and holding him close as he sobbed silently, rubbing his back reassuringly.

He was right, of course. Sam couldn’t hurt them. Not again.


	3. In Which Everything SHOULD Be Okay

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anonymous prompt: "Could you maybe write something where Sam feels like there is no reason he should feel depressed and someone helps him to understand that it is only brain chemistry and that he is going to be alright."

What makes it worse – what makes everything so much worse – is that he shouldn’t feel this way.

There are days where Sam can’t force himself out of bed. There are days where he can’t make himself do anything, where he feels so incredibly empty and gross and sluggish. He looks at himself, and a slew of adjectives comes to mind – lazy, stupid, worthless, selfish … 

Castiel tries to tell him that it’s not his fault, that this is normal and outside of his control. It’s just chemicals in Sam’s brain, nothing to do with how good or bad his life is.

It’s too difficult to listen to. Sam can’t handle the soft words, the gentle tone, the reassurances that he’s going to be alright. He almost wishes Cas would call him horrible, horrible names because even that would be easier.

But for now, he tunes out the tenderness and lets himself feel empty.


	4. In Which It IS an Addiction, Sam

The phone rang at something like one in the morning, and Castiel’s first thought was _Who the hell is calling this late?_ It was a weeknight; he had school in the morning, and most adults had work.

Then he remembered  _exactly_  who might be calling this late and tripped over himself to answer the phone.

“Hello?” And then, when he didn’t get an answer, “Sam?”

“I’m sorry,” Sam’s voice came over the line, soft, as if he were trying to not be heard. “It’s so late. I – I shouldn’t have called you.”

“It’s fine. I was awake anyway,” Castiel lied. “What’s wrong?”

“No, I’m gonna go. I’m sorry.”

“Sam, if you hang up, I’ll just come over anyway. You might as well tell me what’s wrong.”

Sam was silent for a while, then, and Castiel imagined him gnawing on his lip, tense with anxiety. The mental image came much too easily for his liking.

“I’ll tell you,” Sam said finally, resigned. “But don’t come over. Please. That’ll just make me feel worse.”

Castiel promised, even though it went against everything he knew. If whatever this was was as bad as Sam was insinuating, Castiel knew crushing the urge to see him would be difficult. But he promised, for Sam’s sake.

“I relapsed, Cas.” Sam’s voice was so small, even scared. But Castiel heard what he said. “I relapsed. I’m so sorry. God.”

“It’s alright, Sam – ”

“No, it’s not alright! You tried so hard to help, and I just … threw everything out the window.”

“Listen to me, Sam. I’m not angry or disappointed or anything like that. I want to see you, but – ”

“Cas, you – ”

“I promised I wouldn’t. Can you do something for me?”

“ … Yeah. Anything.”

“I want you to clean yourself up. Clean your wounds. Wrap them. Do you remember how I do it?”

“Yeah.”

“Good. Do that. I’ll come over after school tomorrow, and we can talk about this. Figure something out.”

“Cas?”

“Yes?”

Maybe he had imagined it, but it sounded like Sam was sobbing. “Thank you.”

 _Thank you for taking care of me_ , Castiel wondered, or  _thank you for not being angry?_ Or for something else entirely? Castiel had no idea, but he replied, “You’re welcome,” anyway.

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. Things like this happen.”

“If I hadn’t – ”

“It’s an  _addiction_ , Sam. You’re going to fall off the wagon a couple of times. It’s okay.”

“Okay,” Sam said, even though it didn’t sound like he agreed. “I’ll – I’ll see you tomorrow. Goodnight.”

“Sleep well,” Castiel wished, hanging up the phone. He hoped Sam would be able to get the sleep he needed, because Castiel knew that, even if he hadn’t promised not to visit Sam tonight, he wouldn’t get a wink.


	5. In Which Sam Really Does Need Taking Care Of, Sometimes

It was a small blessing that Sam and Castiel had a lunch period together. Sam wouldn’t stand for Castiel missing class because of this, so during lunch, they sneaked away to a secluded corner of the library. Dean accused them of being nerds when he found out. Dean didn’t know, and Sam had no intention of telling him anytime soon.

As soon as they were alone and sufficiently hidden, Castiel wrapped his arms around Sam’s shoulders and held him tight. Sam tensed for a second but melted into the touch gratefully. His eyes shined, but Castiel didn’t comment on it.

“I’m so proud of you,” he whispered with a kiss to Sam’s cheek.

“For what?” Sam sounded broken, even whispering. “Relapsing?”

“For telling me when it happened. Looking for help.”

Sam didn’t respond, and after a moment, Castiel let him go, grabbing his hands gently. He didn’t know where Sam was hurt. “Can I see?”

“Why?”

“I just want to see that you’re okay.”

“I don’t need you to take care of me.”

That sounded defensive, and Castiel’s stomach dropped. That couldn’t be good. “I know you don’t. Indulge me?”

“Cas … “

“I’m just worried. I just want to see for myself.”

Sam sighed wearily. “Fine. But not here. Let’s go.”

Castiel let Sam lead him to the bathroom, their hands still joined between them. They went into the handicapped stall, feeling bad about it, but they needed the room.

As soon as the stall was locked, Sam worried his lip between his teeth and dropped his pants, bunching up the legs of his boxers so Castiel could see.

“It’s too warm for long sleeves,” Sam explained. “People would get suspicious.”

Castiel set his jaw and crouched down to look at the cuts better. They looked deep. Some of them were still sticky, and one had ripped open at some point and had dripped a few inches down Sam’s leg. Castiel wished he had a rag on hand, but lacking that, he wadded up some toilet paper and wiped the blood away.

“You didn’t wrap them,” Castiel observed. He wished he kept bandages and such on him. It was probably a good idea.

“I’d be walking funny.”

“Is that all?” Castiel knew it wasn’t. He knew part of the addiction wasn’t just the cutting but also feeling it afterwards, feeling the wounds scrape against denim and sting with every little movement.

Sam didn’t say that, though.

Castiel sighed and stood up, righting Sam’s boxers and pulling up his pants.

He opened his mouth to speak, but the bathroom door opened. Sam’s eyes widened in fear, and Castiel kept his mouth tight shut, listening to the person wash their hands, humming to themselves, before leaving.

“The juniors must be getting out,” Sam sighed in relief.

“Pull your pants up,” Castiel whispered. “We’re skipping.”

Last year, Castiel wouldn’t have  _dared_ skip class. But Sam had changed that. Sam changed a lot of things, for better or for worse.

“C’mon, Cas, don’t do that for me.”

“We’re skipping,” he repeated firmly. “We only have two classes left anyway.”

“One of them is gym.”

“I’ll gladly run laps for this. Come on.”

“Cas.” Sam grabbed his hand again and tugged, keeping him from leaving. “Thank you. I don’t … I really don’t deserve you.”

Castiel frowned. They’d have to talk about that too.


	6. In Which Sam is a Bit of a Poet

“How do you feel, Sam?” Castiel asks. He has Sam’s head in his lap and is carding his fingers through his hair, listening to the same CD for the upteenth time, but Castiel doesn’t think he’ll ever get tired of it. Sam likes to listen to it when he feels down because it reminds him of Cas, reminds him that he’s not alone.

Sam’s answers are always creative, never just  _okay_  or  _well, thanks, how are you?_ Last time Sam felt like cerulean. The time before that, an irregular pulse. He decided not long ago that it was too easy to lie. This way, he can tell the truth without any fear, because it was a hit or miss whether Castiel would really understand what he’s saying.

Sam checks himself, not entirely sure what he’s feeling. “A dial tone,” he finally settles on, because that’s what makes most sense. A dial tone in the dead of night in a silent house, clutching the phone so hard it cracks while he teeters on the precipice of something.

Castiel just nods – he thinks he gets it – and keeps his fingers moving, humming along as the CD starts over.


	7. In Which Sam Hates His Poetry

Sam imagines his lungs are bellows, and each breath stokes a fire in his chest. It helps, sometimes.

Now is not one of those times. Now, he imagines snuffing out the fire for good. He fantasizes about cold, heavy steel in his hand, the taste of oil and powder on his tongue as he bites the bullet for the last time. He hates how poetic it sounds in his head. He hates even more that his dad keeps his gun locked tight in a safe, the combination to which is none of their birthdays.

None of them know. It would be so easy. None of them would have to know if he did it right.

But then there’s Cas. That’s the only reason Sam never follows through. He knows Cas would tell his family the second he realised he was missing. It’s the bitter taste of discovery, like acid in his throat, that stays Sam’s hand. He hates Cas sometimes.

Now, shaking so hard he’s falling apart, the only one in his room but not alone, Cas on the other end of the line telling him – not unkindly – that he’ll tell everyone if he tries anything. Now is not one of those times.


	8. In Which There is Much to Celebrate

Sam blinked at Castiel, not quite sure what he heard. “What?”

“I said I’d like to take you out tonight,” Cas repeated patiently. “If that’s okay with your family, of course.”

Sam nodded slowly. Convincing his parents shouldn’t be a problem. Tomorrow wasn’t a weekday. “I’d like to go out with you,” Sam started, “but what’s the occasion?” Was he forgetting an anniversary of some kind? A holiday or event? Castiel’s birthday?

Cas looked over his shoulders, checking to make sure no one was listening. The halls were mostly empty except for them, and a few others who had eighth period free. Cas leaned a little closer anyway and lowered his voice. “You’re a month clean today, Sam. I’d like to celebrate with you.”

Sam’s chest tightened when he remembered. He scratched at himself subconsciously. That’s right, another milestone. This is the third “one month clean” Cas wanted to celebrate, and he was no less enthusiastic than the first two times.

Sam swallowed thickly, unsure of what to say. They’d been here twice before. What did that say about him? He’d fallen off the wagon too many times, once even further along than this. He’d waste all that time and backpedaled so far. Why on Earth did Cas still want to celebrate?

“Sam?” Cas touched Sam’s arm gently, concern barely concealed in his expression. Sam only knew it was there because he knew what to look for. “Are you alright? We don’t have to go anywhere if you don’t want. We can stay in, if you’d prefer.”

Sam struggled with his words for a moment, floundering silently before he found his voice. “No, it’s not that. I just … I guess I don’t get why you want to. To do anything for this, I mean. I’ve made it a month before. It’s no big deal.”

“No big deal?” Cas repeated incredulously. No, not incredulously. Concernedly. “Sam, it is a very big deal.”

“Why? I’m just going to screw up again – “

“Not necessarily – “

“I’ve screwed up every other time – “

“And  _that’s_  why it’s so amazing!” Castiel hurriedly looked around again. The hall was now empty save for the two of them, but when he spoke again, he spoke softly. “The fact that you keep picking yourself up, keep moving forward, keep  _trying_  … The fact that you haven’t given up is reason enough to celebrate.” He looked up at Sam, a hint of desperation in his eyes, willing Sam to understand. “If you don’t want to go out, that is fine. It can be as simple as – as watching a movie and eating dinosaur egg oatmeal.” Sam rolled his eyes. Cas ignored it. “Whatever you want, Sam, it really doesn’t matter to me. But I will celebrate this with you.”

Sam sighed. He pretty much knew he was going to give in. There was almost nothing he wouldn’t do for Cas when he got adamant like this. Still, he wasn’t quite willing to let go just yet. “But what if I relapse again? What’s the point in celebrating if I’m just going to ruin it?”

“There will eventually come a day when you don’t have to fight as hard.” Castiel’s voice was soft, and Sam recognised that tone. That was the  _listen to me_  tone. The  _focus on my words and not how you can refute them_  tone. “Someday, you will find you’ve been clean for an entire year – or five years, or ten years – and will barely realise it, because it will have been easier than it is now. And those milestones will be important, too, when you get to them. But now, every day is a struggle, and you’ve won for thirty consecutive days. That is  _amazing_ , Sam. Even if you lose the struggle down the road, it will never erase the fact that, right now, you’ve beaten the strongest opponent you’ve ever had to face. Does – does that analogy make sense?”

Sam sniffed and wiped his eyes on his sleeve irritably. He hated how emotional he got when Cas talked like that. For someone who had no experience with what Sam was going through, Cas seemed to understand it damn better than Sam did.

Sam kept his head down, but he loosely linked his fingers with Castiel’s. “I’ve wanted to try the shakes at Josie’s for a while,” he said softly. He was referring to Josie’s Diner a few blocks from the school, which was a popular hang out for the high schoolers. Sam had never been, he’d always kind of wanted to, and that was as close to permission or acceptance as Cas was going to get.

Judging by his wide, unfortunately rare, smile, Cas understood Sam perfectly, just like always.


	9. In Which It Really Is a Cry For Help

Sam thinks to himself a lot. He has imaginary conversations with himself that could be a little less imaginary if he were just a little more crazy, and they always start the same way:  “Are you okay?” And the answer is always the same:  “No.”

Cas doesn’t ask him that question ever, because he knows how easy it is to blow off. “I’m fine, thanks. How are you?” He always asks open-ended questions to force Sam into semi-honesty. But when Sam asks himself questions, it’s always yes or no, and he’s always honest.

The answer is always no, but right now, it’s a much stronger, more desperate no.

Sam lies on the floor, because that seems like a more desperate act, doesn’t it? He never admits it and he never will, but he’s into the dramatics. It makes his feelings seem more legitimate if they make him roll on the floor, clutching his chest and wanting to scream.

He feels hollow. So damn hollow that he imagines a cavity in his chest, empty except for his heart and the threadlike veins that hold it precariously in place. When he imagines it, his heart is dry and unnaturally soft, free of blood.

He carved words into his skin just to be sure that there was something there. The blood is only a little reassuring and does nothing for the empty ache in his chest, now becoming painful.

There are hot tears streaming down Sam’s face and sobs wracking his body and echoing through his chest and upsetting his pulse. He can’t do this alone. Some part of him has always known that, even though he insists on trying. He needs Cas, but there’s the kicker, isn’t it? He’s tried calling. He’s tried and tried and tried without any sort of answer, and he can’t possibly pick himself off the floor now.

He feels abandoned and unloved and useless and hopeless, and if not even Cas can be here for him, what’s even the point? What reason does he have to go on when the only person who knows what he’s going through is giving up on him?

(There’s a part of Sam’s brain that says that Cas isn’t giving up on him at all; he’s probably just busy. The larger part says that’s not logical. Obviously, Cas is abandoning him because Sam isn’t worth a goodbye. He isn’t worth any of the effort put into him. He isn’t worth shit.)

He’s only left a message once, using their code:  A made-up homework assignment and how bad he’s feeling on a scale of 1-10. “Hey, Cas, just calling about our reading questions for The Scarlet Letter. I’m stuck on chapter nine. No big deal, but I’d like to have this done by tomorrow. Call back if you get a chance.”

That was hours ago, and Sam has long since stopped trying to reach Cas. The phone lays by his head on the floor while he thinks of all the ways he could end his life right now. The more real the possibility becomes, the harder he sobs. He’s rather fond of the idea of going downstairs and grabbing a knife, settling into the bathtub and plunging it through his hollow chest. But, stupidly, that reminds him of the line from The Princess Bride, the one that Dean lies about being his favourite, and that just makes the idea less appealing.

It’s stupid. This is all stupid. He should be dead by now.

Sam considered leaving the phone off the hook for a long while, so that he would never hear it ring if Cas called back. But there’s yet another part of him -- and how multi-faced can he possibly be? -- that wants someone to notice and care. That wants someone to just walk up to him, look him dead in the eye, and say, “Don’t kill yourself.” Or, “I know you cut yourself. I care about you, and I want you to stop.”

Jesus, how fucking needy is he? He already has Castiel to take care of him and say those things. But he wants a complete stranger, for some reason. It’s like every brochure and health textbook says -- this is all a cry for help. Right? That’s not what it feels like, but at the end of the day, Sam wants someone to notice.

So he leaves the phone on the hook. Just in case he decides tonight is the night he’ll stop his heart for good, he’ll take any interruption, any excuse to change his mind.


	10. In Which Sam Doesn't Know How to Say Goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I get comments from people thanking me for writing this series, saying that it's very accurate and hits close to home.
> 
> Accuracy is what I'm going for in Sam's feelings, but please, if anything in this fic hits TOO close to home, stop reading. Exit out. Close the tab. Please take care of yourselves.
> 
> I won't say this is the most triggering chapter yet, but it's up there. Be wary.

Sam’s not shaking when he dials Cas’s number that morning. His fingers are sure across the number pad, and he’s already made up his mind:  If Cas doesn’t answer, Sam will go to school today. But if Cas does answer, Sam will stay home and kill himself.

It seems like a simple enough plan, and he feels calm, almost serene, which is weird because he’s been nothing but tense since his feelings escalated to a real problem that left scars all over his skin.

It’s simple, and he’s calm, so he really doesn’t understand why the bottom of his stomach drops out when Cas answers the phone, a hint of irritation in his voice.

“Cas?” Sam has to force the words out of his mouth. “It’s Sam.”

“Sam! Hi. I -- I got your message, but I got home so late that I didn’t call back.”

That’s a lie, Sam thinks, no matter how hard he tries not to. He was ignoring you; he’s just too nice to say so. “It’s fine,” he says automatically.

“Are you still on chapter nine?”

That’s Cas’s clever way of asking if he’s still feeling like shit. Sam swallows thickly. He knows he’s not in a good place at the moment, but he feels so much better. “No, I’m down to maybe a two. But I’m not going to school today.”

“Are you okay? Do you need me to come over?”

“No! No. I just . . . ate something bad. I’ll be fine. Go to class.”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.” No, I’m not sure. I’m not fine. Please don’t let me hang up. Don’t go to school. Don’t let me be alone or who knows what I’ll do. “Don’t skip just because Dean didn’t cook dinner right.”

“Okay,” Cas replies hesitantly, and Sam’s heart plummets. “I’ll stop by after school, though. To check on you.”

“You don’t have to -- “

“I want to. I hope you feel better soon. I’ll see you in a few hours.”

Sam knows a dismissal when he hears one, so he mutters a goodbye and hangs up.

A deal’s a deal, he thinks, even though the only deal he made was with himself.

He had meant to explain his intentions. The entire point of his plan was so that Cas wouldn’t worry, that he’d know what was going on no matter what happened. And Sam wasted his chance.

But a deal is a deal. He sneaks into his parents’ bedroom and kneels in front of his dad’s safe, like he has too many times before. The combination is none of their birthdays, nor any combination of them -- 7983, 0219, Sam’s tried everything he can think of. He tried his parents’ anniversary, their PIN number, nothing. Frustration built and built inside his chest until tears blurred his vision. He knows there’s a gun in there. He’s fantasised about the taste of the metal, the oil and gunpowder, disgusting but he swallows it down anyway, closes his eyes, pulls the trigger. Usually, this fantasy takes place in a secluded forest or condemned house on the outskirts of town, somewhere no one would think to look and he may never be found.

There are knives in the kitchen. He could sit in the bathtub for easy clean up and snap one of his veins in half. But one look at the scars on his arms -- some raised and white, some still red or pink -- makes him think of Cas, and the last time they celebrated a milestone. One month clean. It felt good, but eventually, Sam decided it didn’t feel as good as the feeling of razors slicing his skin open. That was cathartic. That was reassuring.

That was punishment, but not the kind of punishment he could let himself follow through with. Not with Cas . . .

Damn Cas. Damn him and his big heart and how much he tries and cares. Sam remembers they kissed once, only once, sharing a bed for a sleepover, the blinds open to let in moonlight, and it was too good, too perfect, that Sam had to push him away with a sob. Castiel already knew about the depression, the anxiety, the self harm. He was already too understanding, but that was the night Sam confessed that he wanted to die, that he thought about it a lot, how and where he would do it. Cas didn’t cry. He was supportive, Sam’s rock, a buoy in a thrashing ocean when all Sam wants to do is drown.

Huh. Drowning. He hadn’t considered that one.

With one last ditch effort, he calls Cas’s house again, knowing he’ll get the voice mail. “Hi, Cas. It’s Sam again. Sorry for calling so much. I’m really stuck on unit eleven in Latin, so I’m going somewhere else to study. So if you drop by, and I’m not here, that’s why. Just wanted to let you know.”

It was cowardly. Less cowardly than leaving his family out of the loop entirely, but that was possibly the worst way to say goodbye.

Without thinking, Sam opened his notebook and started writing to Cas. A suicide note -- not to his family, because if he has it his way, they’ll never know. This will be a horrible accident or a possible kidnapping or an unsolved missing persons case. They deserve better, but what’s worse:  Finding your son mysteriously dead in the woods, or knowing that he’s the person who offed himself in the first place? No, Sam will spare them the gory details. As for Cas . . . well, it says in his note, forgive and forget. And please try to forget.

Sam should have been keeping track of time, but every time he messed up his letter or the words just didn’t come out right, he tore out the sheet, balled it up, and tried again. It wasn’t easy. What do you say to a friend -- more than a friend? -- who’s been with you through thick and thin and thinner and breaking? How do you tell them that their efforts were wasted? That they just delayed the inevitable?

But Sam should have been keeping track of time because maybe then he would have found his words sooner. There was a knock on his door, tentative, and Sam stiffened. Cas would open the door with or without invitation. What was Sam supposed to do?

He could run. His window was always a good way to get in or out of the house more or less unnoticed. But where would he go? What could he do to himself with no major bodies of water within a ten mile radius, at least? He couldn’t run that far.

Without really thinking, Sam all but slammed his notebook shut and jumped into bed, covering himself as well as he could and pretending to be asleep.

Barely a second later, his door opened, and although Sam couldn’t see, he knew it had to be Cas. They had eighth period off together, and the rest of Sam’s family wouldn’t start trickling in for hours still.

Cas’s footsteps were light, tentative, and Sam kept up the facade of sleeping as well as he could when Cas peeled back the covers. Cas placed a hand in front of Sam’s face, feeling for breath. He gently checked the pulse in Sam’s neck. And then Cas collapsed beside the bed with a shaky, “Oh, thank God.” He sounded close to tears, or maybe he was already crying.

Sam heard the rustling of paper and panicked, knowing Cas was reading his rejected suicide notes, but Sam tried to remain still.

“Oh, God,” Cas whispered periodically. “Oh, God, Sam.” And that right there? That was definitely the voice of someone speaking through tears. Sam had never seen Cas cry, not really, and some sick part of him wanted to peek just to see it. But then Cas moved back over to the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight on one side, and Sam sincerely hoped Cas decided to join him in bed.

“I know you can hear me, Sam,” Cas whispered, running his fingers through Sam’s hair. Sam leaned into the touch instinctively. “But don’t wake up on my account. I don’t know what made you change your mind, but I’m glad it did. I got your voicemail. Well, Gabriel told me about your voicemail. He’s a little tired of you leaving messages,” Cas laughed wetly. “I was so scared.” His voice broke on a sob, and Sam wanted nothing more than to reach out to him. “I was so scared that I was too late. I knew I should have stayed with you, I knew something was wrong, but I just let it go. I had no idea what I’d find when I got here, if I found anything. I thought -- I was so sure that I’d find you -- and -- “ Cas stopped and took a deep, shuddering breath before climbing into bed and holding Sam close. Sam buried his face in Cas’s trembling chest and wrapped his arms around his waist, just like he’d actually do if they were sleeping together.

“I’m not letting you go,” Cas said softly, but determinedly. “You promised you’d tell me when it got bad. You promised. I don’t know what to do now, but I’m sure as hell not letting you out of my sight. I’ll stay over every night if I have to. I’ll follow you into the fucking bathroom, Sam I just -- I can’t lose you. I just can’t. I don’t know what I’d do without you in my life.”

Now Sam was crying too, clinging to Cas like he was a lifeline, because in a sense, he was. They both knew Sam wasn’t sleeping, but he still kept his eyes closed, still pretended, because the facade gave Cas the courage to speak his mind and Sam the courage to listen.

Cas didn’t let Sam go until he had spoken his fill and Sam “woke up.” Even then, he threw his arms around Sam in an uncharacteristic display of affection.

“You,” Cas ordered in a stern voice, “Are going to stay right here. I’m going to bring up some food and water. Do I need bandages as well?”

Sam shook his head, not trusting his voice one bit.

“Good. That’s good. Don’t move. Please.” And it really was a plea.

Damn Cas. Damn him and his big heart that was a life raft when Sam was drowning, and his caring that was an oxygen tank when Sam couldn’t breathe, and his dedication, which was a canteen when Sam was lost even to himself. Damn Cas.

Sam promised not to move, and he truly didn’t, staying as still as possible until Cas returned with a tray of soup and crackers and water.

Damn Cas and the way he ruined everything by being too kind and too intuitive and too damn fucking caring, intervening every time at the worst time.

Sam nibbled at a cracker and tolerated a kiss to his temple. He knew he was gross and greasy, but the gesture was comfort and a promise and also a little bit of a threat. Sam had no doubt that Cas would keep him on 24/7 lockdown, or at least watch him for a long time after this. Cas wasn’t his caretaker. Damn him.

Sam thought he might be a little bit in love with this boy.


	11. In Which Cas is Scared

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally posted to tumblr ages ago with just dialogue, and I decided not to post it here because it was too short. So now I've made it longer.

When Sam and Cas sneaked out together through Sam’s bedroom window, Cas always clutched Sam’s hand in his own the entire way down, only letting go when their feet were on solid ground, and sometimes not even then. It confused Sam a little, because surely it was safer to have both hands free when climbing down, but he never questioned it. Not really

The only time he brought it up was when he slipped and nearly fell one night when the shingles were wet from the afternoon’s rain. Cas caught him easily, seemingly prepared to do so, but when Sam straightened up to thank him or apologise -- even he wasn’t sure which -- Cas’s face was white as a sheet.

“Is that why you hold my hand when we sneak out?” Sam asked. “In case I fall?”

“No,” Cas answered simply, but he didn’t elaborate until they were both safely on the ground. “I hold your hand in case you get the urge to jump.”

For some reason, that punched the breath from Sam’s lungs. It felt like so long ago that he confessed that he wanted to die sometimes. It hadn’t even felt like that big of a deal at the time. Cas had already known about the depression and the cutting. Suicidal thoughts were just the next logical step, right? Sam had been scared, and Cas had comforted him, but not much had changed.

Did Cas really just start holding his hand after that?

As Cas sometimes did when he was nervous, he started over explaining. “I don’t think you’d do that to your family. Or me. And I know a fall like that likely wouldn’t kill you anyway. But it’s scary to think that you might . . . I mean, I know you probably wouldn’t. But . . . I’m scared, okay?”

Sam shook his head, not in denial but in disbelief. This whole time, he’d been so scared of himself that he never really considered that this might be scary for Cas too.

Instead of any of that, he said, “You wouldn’t be able to stop me if I jumped. You’re not strong enough.”

Sam immediately wanted to smack himself. What an insensitive thing to say. But something hardened in Cas’s expression.

“You’re right,” he admitted. “I’m not strong enough to hold you up. But if you jump, you’re taking me with you. I’m hoping that’s enough to stop such a thing from happening.”

Sam nodded, feeling shamed, and let Cas lead them away from the house. They never spoke of it again.


	12. In Which Sam Keeps Fighting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In honour of Jared's Always Keep Fighting campaign.
> 
> Also this seems to be a hot topic on my dash recently.

It’s not difficult to put on a happy face. Not every day is bad enough to have Cas climbing through the window, after all. (Sam almost wishes everyday  _ was _ that bad, because then he’d at least feel a little justified about how he feels.)

He has reasons to tough through it all. His family, mostly. On everything he reads on suicide, there is inevitably someone who mentions that it’s selfish, as if whoever’s considering it doesn’t know. As if Sam wasn’t constantly thinking about how his death would affect his family.

And then there’s Cas.

Cas puts so much effort into him. It’s almost ridiculous, and Sam knows he doesn’t deserve it. No one does, probably. If Sam were to give in, it would ruin Cas. He has no doubt about that. Cas would blame himself endlessly. He might never forgive himself for letting Sam slip through his fingers.

So yes, Sam has reasons to keep fighting. He has reasons to smile no matter how dead inside he feels. Some days aren’t that bad. Others are horrible, but catching Cas looking at him fondly, joking around with Dean, helping Mom with dinner -- it all makes it just that little bit easier.


	13. In Which Love is a Loaded Word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another AKF chapter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry. I only update when I'm feeling really down, to capture the emotion or whatever, but I'm tipsy, toeing the line to drunk, so if this (or the last chapter) sucks, that's why. Sorry again.

It takes a long time for Sam to pony up and actually tell Cas how he feels. Which is, frankly, a little ridiculous, because they’ve been sharing beds and cuddling and even kissing each other now and again. They’re already too close to claim that they’re just friends anymore.

Still, Sam’s nervous when he tells Cas that he likes him. A lot. In fact, he might even -- 

That’s where Cas interrupts. “Sam. I care for you a lot. I’m sure you know that already. But I don’t want to pursue a relationship with you yet. If ever.”

Sam deflated. He couldn’t help it. Add this to the list of things he’s fucked up.

Just like always, Cas can read him like a book. He takes one of Sam’s hands in both of his own and makes eye contact, which Sam had been trying to avoid. “I care for you more than I have anyone else. And I know we’re young, but I think I might love you. But,” he continued forcefully when Sam opened his mouth to speak, “I don’t want you to say it to me yet. I want to focus on loving you first.”

Cas is quiet for a moment, and Sam would have broken the silence if he didn’t so badly want to know where Cas was going with this.

“I know not saying it doesn’t make it any less true,” he finally admitted. “But I think . . . I think you need to focus on loving yourself first. Does that make sense? In the future, when you feel better about yourself, we’ll confess to each other. Okay?”

He didn’t quite understand why it mattered, why waiting would make a difference. Sam’s ability to love himself didn’t hinder his ability to love Cas in the least. But he did notice that Cas assumed they would still love each other whenever Sam ‘felt better about’ himself, however long that took, and that filled Sam with a warmth that he only ever felt around Cas. It didn’t touch the emptiness that lingered inside him, but it made everything else feel good.

“Okay,” Sam agreed. Then, “In the meantime, can I still kiss you?”

That almost dragged a laugh out of Cas, and absolutely got an affirmative answer.


	14. In Which Force of Will Is Not As Strong As Force of Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole story is triggering, but this chapter in particular is fairly graphic for self-harm.

Sam can feel his eyes beginning to prickle with tears, gritting his teeth until his jaw aches, breathing deliberately, heavier than necessary. His mind is working overtime, even though he’s exhausted, but the positive thoughts he tries to cling to are no match for the negativity -- both real and imagined -- that his brain is bombarding him with, so quickly one memory or scenario after another, almost at the same time.

It happens quickly:  While trying to remember the alternatives Cas provided him with, Sam blinks and finds himself with a blade in one hand, neat likes starting to ooze on either leg.

It’s not as if Sam didn’t realise he was doing it, but his mind was on other things. It’s in a haze that he take sthe pill bottle from its hidden corner of the medicine cabinet and slices his skin open. As it always does, the cutting ( _ self-harm _ , Cas’s politically-correct voice unhelpfully corrects) clearshis mind. It’s cathartic, relaxing. He can’t be overwhelmed while he’s bleeding. But with the clearing of the haze comes a horror once Sam realises exactly what he had done.

It’s late, too late for a phone call. Yet Sam blinks again, and the phone is ringing in his hand. Another habit, he supposed. He’s getting blood on the plastic, and drips are threatening the carpet, but he can’t be bothered to care.

Cas sounds sleepy and irritated when he answers with a no-less-concerned, “Hello?”

Sam takes a breath and immediately regrets calling. “I’m sorry. It’s so late. I -- I shouldn’t have called you.”


	15. In Which Sam Considers His Options

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been a while, huh?
> 
> Cw suicidal ideation, as usual.

Sometimes, words don’t help. Cas can logic through anything, walk Sam through his feelings and his decisions, and while Sam understands it all, it just doesn’t help. Anxiety never yields for logic.

Sometimes, all Cas can do is hold Sam tight and refuse to let go, through waves of calm and violent tears and everything in between. When Sam thinks his options are college or death – when he thinks death is an option at all because he’d rather face that than a setback or possible failure.

When the question ceases to be _What do I do? What are the pros and cons of all my options?_ or _What even are my options?_ and becomes _What’s the point? What’s the point?whatsthepoint?_

_What’s the point of life?_

_It’s all so impermanent anyway._

_The only thing I’ve ever been was a student_.

That’s Castiel’s least favourite. When Sam hits a roadblock in the application process – when he gets a rejection or a scholarship requires the ACT _plus writing_ – there’s a distinct possibility of a breakdown. And Sam doesn’t see any reason to continue life if he can’t go to college because _I’ve only ever been a student. My whole life. It’s all I’m good at. It’s all I know how to be_.

And Castiel _hates_ that. _No, Sam. You know how to be a friend and a brother and a son. You’re good at soccer and chess, and you’re the best damn friend I’ve ever had_.

It doesn’t matter. Sam hears him, he understands, but he just doesn’t get it.

Words don’t help. Cas’s words don’t help, only the ones with official collegiate seals do. And all Cas can to is hold Sam tight and pray for the swift arrival of acceptance letters.


End file.
